The Choice
by nomuse
Summary: Harry arrives at Hogwarts -- has his rotten childhood already turned him to the dark side? (Yep...yet another Sorting Hat story! ^_^;; )


Scribbler's note: I haven't added one original thing, but I have confused matters by using the book in one place and the movie in another. The book being that of J.K. Rowling and may she, her publisher, and all she has negotiated rights with, please kindly ask me to cease and desist before calling for lawyers.  
  
This is a slight alteration to the first part of "Harry Potter and the PHILOSOPHER'S Stone," and ends with a question.  
  
  
  
  
  
The Choice  
  
  
  
  
So, you think it looks easy, do you? Take a look and name a house and move on, move on. Sure, some of them you can pick the moment you lay eyes on 'em. Something in the curl of the mouth and the chill of the eye fair shouts out "Slytherin!" for you.  
  
But it isn't so simple. If I didn't do a little thinking, a little selecting of my own there'd be so many in Hufflepuff the dorms wouldn't hold them. What's that? Griffindor you say? Hogwash and ram's bottoms. Most magic folk are no better than Muggles, wanting a cozy corner of the world to curl up in and none of those frightful adventures to stir things up. Griffindor expects too much of them, and so does Ravenclaw. Hufflepuff's where they want to be and much I'd like to send them there.  
  
I'm a made thing, you know. An artefact. But I had to start learning right off, before I could even half-do the job I was set to. And aside from that...I've looked into the minds and hearts of every first-year student to pass through the doors of Hogwarts. You think that wouldn't rub off a little? You think I wouldn't grow a bit beyond where I was started?  
  
So I sorts them as their talents require. And I sorts them in ways they wouldn't have looked themselves. It might do a born Hufflepuff to be forced to live a little larger than life for a while. It might be better if a proud Griffindor was sent into the world of books and the battle of the debate instead. I sorts them as the houses need them, seeing no house has too many or two few, and seeing each house has at least a few decent Quidditch players in it (for it would be a shame to let down the games).  
  
And I sorts them for the sake of their classmates, and to see to the future. There's a balance in the world of magic, there is. I like to think I've done my part, there at the gate of Hogwarts, looking towards the future and choosing ever so carefully the key players to come. There's a few that seem to sense what I'm up to. Dumbledore, for one. There's not much that slips past that one.  
  
Be that as it may. I see I'm rambling again. So? I was made to be a Sorting Hat, not a storyteller. And that brings me to that one, and the choice he made, and a side of him you'll like not have seen before...  
  
  
  
  
It had been changing already. Harry didn't know that. He didn't see how things were changing within him and around him until the day of the first letter.  
  
Dudley had snatched it from him before he could pry open the seal. As Harry grabbed back the little pig shoved him back into the wall so hard Harry's teeth popped together. And something snapped. Even a rat will turn and fight when cornered and Harry bad been cornered for far too long.  
  
Dudley was a natural-born bully, which meant he was a coward. He had the simple cunning of his kind as well and he saw the change in Harry's eyes. He took a step back before he realized it. Then he considered. Even a vicious, cornered Harry Potter was still Harry Potter; still the underfed, scrawny foundling that lived in the cupboard under the stairs. Dudley reconsidered, and his mouth twisted, and he shoved Harry again.  
  
And Harry knew hatred. Before the letter the Dursleys had simply been something to survive, or not; his lot held no promise of surcease. But the letter hinted at a larger world and a world in which there might be hope. Knowing that there could be hope, even a vain one, allowed him to see the Dursleys clearly, and see them as obstacles to his happiness. At that moment, and fully aware of it for the first time in his life, Harry hated.  
  
  
  
  
As more letters came Harry understood a truth that wasn't spoken aloud in that house. There WAS magic in the world. He could see the fear in Mr. Dursley's eyes as the letters crammed themselves into the sanctuary of the mundane that was his home. Privet Drive was invaded by more than owls; it was invaded by an idea -- an idea that there was more to life than making drills, cleaning house, and raising a child to do just the same.  
  
Harry already knew he was different. He didn't realize yet how different. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the memory of the snake thanking him in its soft hissing voice, and the cold reptilian thought that had came to him just moments before; "If only that glass wasn't there. If only that glass would...vanish!"  
  
Dudley Dursley seemed to take it as a personal duty to his father to beat this new awareness out of Harry if it were at all possible. It was hard to believe he could become more beastly towards Harry, but he did. And this time neither parent even pretended to care about stopping him.  
  
As long as it was just letters, at least. Letters just sat there, waiting to be read. They didn't shout, they didn't lift a finger against you.  
  
Then the letters came on Sunday. This was most un-letter-like. It meant the letters weren't going to be cricket anymore and keep playing the letter game. It meant they could be capable of anything now; some letter mischief, some paper-borne torment of their own. It was a good time to slip away.  
  
  
  
  
And thus they came to the hut on the rock. And there Hogwarts own Keeper of the Keys found them. Now, no-one ever said Rubeus Hagrid didn't have a good soul, and a bucket of courage, and a wide protective streak. But tact and subterfuge were both unknown to him. Why else would Dumbledore have picked him to pick up the you-know-what from vault you-know-which but so that You-Know-Who would be sure to find out the thing had been moved to Hogwarts?  
  
Hagrid cast a spell on that little pig Dudley (if you ask me it was an improvement), and that was already a mistake for he was forsworn against the use of magic. It was even more a mistake because he did it in front of young Harry. In front of Harry who had just learned what a Muggle was, and that he was a wizard, and now was shown in no uncertain terms just what a wizard could do to a Muggle that annoyed him.  
  
Hagrid sat him down and had him read the Hogwarts letter. And Harry read, there in that leaking mildewed shack out on the bare rock in the middle of the storm, with his uncle glowering and Aunt Petunia wringing her hands and little Dudley squealing in anguish over his new appendage.  
  
To go away to school. To a good school, not some horrid public school where he would be beat on the same as before. To have clean clothes and good food and to be able to walk in sunlight. These were his first thoughts and they were worthy of James and Lily Potter. Harry would have a chance to learn: truly, to make something of himself.  
  
To learn magic. The next thought that came to him was worthy of his foster parents, and came from the stultifying stupidity and petty cruelties of their existence. Harry could learn the charms and curses that would make sure that no-one ever picked on him again -- or if they did, would soon regret it. He would no more have to stay among Muggles and accept the taunts and insults of other boys.  
  
If Hagrid had not been looking elsewhere at that moment he might have taken letter and boat and been gone from there, least this urge for revenge be given the tools it needed.  
  
  
  
  
Hagrid took Harry away from there and the boy did not look back. In the Leaky Cauldron Harry realized he was famous among magic folk. It embarrassed him no little -- in that at least Dumbledore's purpose in having him raised among Muggles was proved out.   
  
Inside Gringotts and at the vault left by his family Harry was as wide-eyed as a child at Christmas. It was a delight to see and Hagrid smiled at it. He did not lose the smile when his young charge turned to Griphook and asked for his balance in writing. But he might have, had he followed young Harry's thinking. Money meant security. Money meant independence. If he had money, then in one less matter did he have to live on the sufferance of others.  
  
They went out into Diagon Alley and Harry was delighted at Hagrid's gift of a snowy owl. And troubled by what he found at Ollivanders; for the old man had reached almost immediately for the slim wand whose twin had belonged to Voldemort and done so much evil in his hand.   
  
The glittering goods of Diagon Alley, the polished brooms and booming cauldrons and fluffy owls, the robes and bracelets and books and herbs, were spread out for Harry like presents under a tree, with Hagrid his generous Herr Drosselmeyer. But was Harry a Fritz or a Clara; would the final gift be a heroic Nutcracker...or a Rat King?  
  
At last he was packed and ready and under the glassed Victorian ceiling of Kings Cross Station to fetch the special train to Hogwarts itself. There Hagrid made his final mistake. He abandoned Harry there on the verge of achieving his new happiness.  
  
Magic folk are no more dependable than Muggles, Harry thought then. If I am ever to be happy, then it is up to me to do something about it. I have money, now. And I have power. Hagrid said something about me stopped Voldemort dead. With that power, if I can learn to use it, I can make sure I never have to live with an Uncle Vernon or depend on a Rubeus Hagrid again.  
  
He saw the owl cages, the not-so-well-disguised brooms in their brown parcel wrappings, and he realized suddenly that some of the children around him weren't going to Eaton or Smeltings. Harry wheeled his baggage cart around and fell in casually. When he caught the word "Muggles" from a red-haired little girl he knew he was heading in the right direction.  
  
They came to Platform 9, then stopped short of Platform 10. Harry watched, acting as if he knew exactly where he was going and just wanted to catch his breath from shoving that overloaded cart about.  
  
Two red-headed boys went up to the brick pillar between the platforms and promptly vanished. Harry narrowed his eyes. A younger boy did the same as the family waved him off. Then the woman and the little girl turned about and headed back up the platforms.  
  
Harry approached the pillar. He studied it. Pressed a hand against it. His desperation was mounting, and he no longer bothered to continue his cool act. He knew the train would be leaving within minutes.   
  
"Let me help," a soft voice said behind him. Harry whirled, eyes angry. The woman's face was so kind, and so without any hint of pity or condescension, that Harry's anger faded in a moment. "I'm Martha Weasley," she said. "Your first year, then?"  
  
Harry nodded silently.  
  
"The trick is to go through the pillar without flinching. You have to pretend it isn't there. Sometimes it helps to take it at a bit of a run, especially the first time."  
  
"Thank you," Harry said. He went back to fetch his cart, wheeled it around, and pushed it at the fastest run he could manage. And he was on Platform 9 3/4 with the red Hogwarts Special hissing and puffing before him.  
  
  
  
  
"I'll take those," Harry pointed at the cart. He fished into his pocket and brought out the handful of gold Galleons there. The weight of them was cold assurance that they really did exist, that he had money for the first time in his life. That he COULD buy the things he desired. "And that, and that, and two of those, and oh, all of the green ones -- they look extra-delicious."  
  
He plumped back in his seat with his handful of treasures. Ron Weasley, across from him, returned his attention to his own sandwich and tried to be enthusiastic about it.  
  
"Oh, go on," Harry said. "Have one of these. I have lots."  
  
"Sure?"  
  
"Absolutely," he told the red-haired boy. "Besides, I don't know a bit about these candies...you'll have to tell me which ones are good."  
  
Ron took a handful from Harry. And for a long moment all Harry could see was the reaching hand and the anxious look. For a long moment he could only despise this creature that had to subsist on handouts and could not afford its own. Him and his aged rat...his own owl was much prettier.  
  
The moment passed, though, in the delight of chocolate frogs and the giggling explorations of Bertie Bott's Every-Flavored Beans and the sheer simple delight of Cauldron Cakes with the frosting so frothy and light it melted on the tongue like cotton candy.  
  
The door slid open preemptively. A girl with sharp teeth and lots of hair looked around dismissively at the detritus of their Roman candy feast. "I suppose you haven't seen Neville's toad either," she announced.  
  
"Nope," Ron said around a licorice wand.  
  
"You'd better clean up and get your robes on," the girl said then. "We're only ten minutes from Hogwarts. Do you know your rat is smoking?"  
  
Ron squirmed. "I tried to do a spell on him but it didn't come off right."  
  
"A spell? Let's see it, then."  
  
"No...I think it's no good," Ron said, embarrassed and annoyed.  
  
"That's odd," the girl said in a manner that suggested it was anything but. "All of the spells I've tried have worked perfectly. Of course I've only read the first-year books so far."  
  
"Oh, yeah?" Ron said feebly.  
  
"Of course." She looked quickly around the compartment for something to demonstrate on. She saw the cracked lens on Harry's glasses and her wand was out in a moment and pointing at his head.  
  
Quick as a snake Harry's hand came up and caught her by the wrist. "Don't do that," he said coolly.  
  
Ron near swallowed his licorice. "That's Harry Potter!" he told the girl. "Don't you know what happened to the last person to point a wand at him?"  
  
"Of course," the girl said, shaken but trying her best to hide it. "I read all about it. Let go of my hand, Mr. Potter...you're hurting."  
  
"Is this a private party?" a new voice said.  
  
"I was just leaving," the girl said, and did, her nose in the air.  
  
A pale boy with a sharp thin face and a pronounced widow's peak came in, moving with the ease of one who has been to the best schools all his life and don't you forget it. "The word is out all over this train that you are on it, Harry," the boy said. "I'm Draco Malfoy."  
  
Ron snickered for a moment. "And I'm Ron Weasley," he said.  
  
"I knew what you were," the pale boy said dismissively. "Harry, I know you are new at Hogwarts and all that, but isn't too early for you to decide which families are worth having an acquaintance with, and which are merely...the wrong kind."  
  
"Oh, I think I can figure that out for myself, Malfoy."  
  
The two larger boys behind Draco bristled. They did look a lot like bodyguards. Or at least like a private fan club. They also looked quite a bit bigger than Harry and Ron combined.  
  
Harry stood up. "I'm not looking for trouble," he said.  
  
"That's telling 'em, Harry!"  
  
"Shut up, Weasley!" Harry didn't even look at him. "I don't need friends, Malfoy. Or interference." His hand moved slowly and a centimeter of wand appeared from beneath his coat.  
  
Malfoy didn't move. He caught Harry Potter's eye, then gave him a nod of grudging respect. "I'll look for you at the sorting," he said. "Slytherin would do well for you...and you for it."  
  
  
  
At long last one journey was over, and another was to begin. Harry Potter stood with the other first-years at the end of the Great Hall. Ron Weasley stood beside him in the easy friendship that seemed to come so naturally, and Hermione Granger, the girl with all the hair, had somehow attached herself as well. Not so far away pale Draco Malfoy and his little tribe of supporters gave him another nod and the secret smile of those who understand how things REALLY are.  
  
They were about to be picked for their house, and in that pick was an implicit choice. It could be power. The power he was heir too, the power that had already stopped Voldemort cold, that before he could speak had given him fame. Slytherin could help him there. He would be among the chosen, and tested by them, and pushed through cut-throat competition to excel as never before. He would never need again to bide his time, to bow down, to allow others to have sway over him.  
  
Or there was friendship, the camaraderie of brothers. It seemed such a slight thing in comparison, but Harry had seen the love that knit the sprawling Weasley family together. Brothers and friends he had never had, but once there had been a family that loved him.   
  
Ron would be going to Griffindor. All the Weasleys did. Of course Harry was hardly of Griffindor class. Heroism? Great things? Hardly. Nor was Ravenclaw plausible. He had already had more than enough exposure to Hermione and her many books and the very thought of all that studying gave him a head-ache. Was there perhaps a school for those who merely wanted to be left alone?  
  
He hardly noticed as Draco was called, and Ron, and many others. Even Neville and his toad made it into Griffindor, surprising everyone and nearly making him lose the toad again. Then Harry's name was called.  
  
He walked slowly to the three-legged stool and Professor McGonagall. And me. I was lifted in his hands and settled across his brows.  
  
Griffindor, or Slytherin? Either would do well for him, and by him. The power was there to see in his mind. The desire, the need to prove himself, the want to live fully. And he had courage, there was no denying that, and a compassion and honesty that hadn't quite been beaten out of him.   
  
As Slytherin, he would swiftly rise to the top of his craft. He would be respected, even feared. As Gryffindor his path was clouded; he would face terror and hardship and be tested as he had never been tested before.   
  
And somewhere out there Voldemort waited, Voldemort who had tried to turn James and Lily Potter to his side and now had dark designs on the child. Any path he took would bring him within Voldemort's reach, but only one path made sure it would be as stark enemies.  
  
"Harry," I said so softly the rest in the Great Hall could not hear. "What's it to be, then?" 


End file.
